Poisoned
by girlwhoplayswithfire
Summary: Falling. That's all there is. Falling in the depth of space, soft brushes of skin against skin, and fevered, carnage kisses. Tounges and pressure and emptiness. RoChu.


Domination. That's what this is about.

Need. Want. Poison spreading through veins, lips pink and flushed in a not-so-innocent way, and desperate clawing for a handhold, anything, to stable themselves.

Falling. That's all there is. Falling in the depth of space, soft brushes of skin against skin, and fevered, carnage kisses. Tounges and pressure and emptiness.

They're so lonely. It's all black, and white, and gray, and nothing else. It would drive a person to insanity after a while, nothing but those stupid colors. It almost makes sense that they would find each other.

"You do know," One says softly on a cold day, not meeting the other's eyes, inky hair streaking across the pillow. "That this will have to end, right?"

"I don't care." The other responds, the one with the shattered eyes, equally quiet. Hands meet and twist together, a surprisingly innocent gesture.

Red. Bloody red, scarlet red. Crimson, washing over their visions. Bloodlust and facades and tears purging cheeks of sins like some vicious mockery of holy water with the moon standing guard as a pale priest to exorcise the demons from their skin. It's a lovely contrast to the usual bleak palette of their days, which stretch into weeks and years of nothing.

They cling together, turning their backs on the rest of the world. Because what is the rest of the world without being able to look into each other's eyes?

Fingers are stained with blood and gore, like sickening gloves. Hearts are cold and empty; faces are blank and meaningless, all mixing together with a bloody undertone.

They both want to scream. They're so confused; is this what they want? Domination and power and control and blood streaking faces like battle paint?

He cuts his hair; the beautiful, inky hair that was always so coveted. It falls to the ground, brushing his cheeks on the way down. Some of it sticks to the wet skin.

He looks in the slivered glass of the mirror, beautiful hair cut in a sideways angle with a dangerous, evil, insane glint in his eyes.

When will his reflection look like himself again?

A fist meets with the mirror as an explosion of blood and glass falls to the plain, unassuming floor. Red liquid, thick and dark, drips soothingly down his fingers; the cuts are beginning to sting in a way that isn't quite painful.

Wild eyes meet their counterpart in the last shard of silver, blinking back like a trapped animal trying to break free and unleash its savage revenge on the world that never respected him, never acknowledged him.

He shears off his awkwardly cut locks as he leaves the bloodstained rule, hopefully for good.

The beautiful, shattered eyes are like a drug; an addiction to the pain, to end the pain. He has to let it go, for both of their sakes. He knows this, yet he doesn't want to face up to the painful fact.

His hair is curling around his eyes and temples, shielding the now-dull eyes from view.

Withdrawal. Inevitable and anticipated, but no less harsh for being expected. He bites the words down, the ones that would end his pain, and recieves nothing but broken hopes and a bleeding tongue for his efforts.

His hair caresses his soft, pale cheeks now.

Red is just a reminder, of good times and bad, nothing truly special; just another color on his stunning palette. Violet, however, only brings pain and regret and the faintest hint of longing that he tries to ignore and crush down into the bottom of his heart. He doesn't succeed.

His hair is down to his chin now.

He looks in the sliver of silvery glass, but the reflection staring back still looks like a stranger. Deep, purple moons under shadowy, dim eyes and a mouth pulled down in loss and grief.

His hair can be pulled back into a small ponytail.

He no longer enjoys anything; it's always slapping him in the face with regrets and worry and shame. His family is worried, but he can't quite bring himself to care. They don't mean as much as they used to.

His hair is almost as long as it was before. He hates that.

He traces designs in the misty condensation from his glass, trailing a fingerip in the water and marking out patterns on the shiny wooden surface of the table.

He gets up and leaves when he realizes that he wrote a name.

Soft whispers reach his ears, insistent voices that he sleep, eat, do something other than stare into the sky.

He shakes his head and stares stubbornly at the northern sky, dark with faint stars seeming to make a sign, saying that he was welcome, he would always be welcome there. Nothing would be taken for granted, no one would ignore him, and he would always, always be loved.

He won't cry. Because crying is weak, and no one will respect him if he's weak. He has to be strong, at least on the outside. When he's alone, he can cry whenever he wants.

"Go ahead. I won't mind." Warm arms are wrapped around his frame as sobs of relief and joy shake his shoulders, and he buries his face in a familiar chest.

No one is there to hold him when he realizes it's just a dream.

Eventually, it's just too much. It lasted far longer than he expected; too long. And now his love was gone, vanished into thin air.

Or not quite. Reborn as a new nation would be more accurate. But, just like so many others, he forgot all of his memories.

He forgot about the one waiting for him.

And the one waiting for him waited still, tears kept inside and out of sight. He had to make a good first impression, of course. His heart ached at the thought.

And then, the moment where his love smiles at him and walks toward him. A flash of confusion passes over his face, dimming the beautiful smile, before he's in front of him and the grin is back in place, without a sign of ever having left.

"Hello! I'm Russia, da~"

"Hello, I'm China."

Hear that? That's the sound of my heart breaking.


End file.
